


The Big Sleep

by Hark_bananas



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, No Angst, Pigeons, Sleep, brief mention of flan, doughnuts, getting your wires crossed, malfunctioning machinery, sea serpents, the arm came with a warranty but it expired sixty years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-26 18:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20934578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hark_bananas/pseuds/Hark_bananas
Summary: He is, indeed, lying down on the couch, but he looks like he’s been shot with a tranquilizer gun. He’s facedown, his flesh arm twisted underneath him at a weird, painful-looking angle, his metal arm thrown up over the arm of the couch, holding the book open. A few of its pages are crumpled in the grip of his metal fingers. His legs are stretched out, but only one is on the couch– his right leg is hanging over the side and his knee is resting on the floor. His face is planted flat in a crack between the cushions and his hair is in disarray.Steve shoots to his feet and feels adrenaline flood his system. His first thought issniper!but there’s no blood, no visible injuries, and no broken glass or other signs of violence. He slides his hand around Bucky’s neck, under his hair, and feels his pulse, slow and steady. At this moment, Bucky starts to snore softly into the crack.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Apologies to Raymond Carver for the appropriation of this title.)

The first time it happens, it’s quarter past nine on a Tuesday morning. They usually get up together at 8:30 on the days that they don’t have a mission or that Steve decides to go for a morning run, a compromise born of Steve’s desire to get up before the sun meeting Bucky’s desire to stay in his duvet burrito until eleven o’clock. Sometimes, Steve gives in to the indolence and agrees to stay in bed, especially if Bucky crawls on top of him when the alarm goes off and starts in on Steve’s neck like a drowsy leech. Other times, Bucky agrees to get up with Steve before the sun and run around Brooklyn in tiny shorts like a goddamn fool, which usually only happens when he owes Steve a favor. He prefers to repay favors sexually, and he says so, loudly and publicly in the middle of Prospect Park, but Steve says that since he can have that any time he wants, he’d rather be repaid with company on his pre-dawn run. Bucky slaps his ass hard enough to make it jiggle and runs down the path cackling.

This particular day, the alarm goes off at 8:30 like usual. Steve stretches, joints sounding like a mouthful of pop rocks, and rolls over to kiss the crown of Bucky’s head, the only part of him that shows above the duvet. He stands up and opens the curtains to let the sun into the room while Bucky, still deep in his burrito, makes a sound like an annoyed mastiff. “Alright, alright,” Steve says. “I’m going to make coffee and start the toast.”

He walks into the kitchen and flips the switch for their insanely expensive Italian espresso maker that Tony dubbed ‘the Lamborghini,’ and which Steve bought for Bucky after he realized exactly how much of their money was being funneled into Starbucks. They also have a battered old Moka pot that Steve found at a flea market and with which he makes his own coffee on the stovetop, bitter and thick as treacle. Every morning he makes Bucky’s coffee with the Lambo, and although it makes him feel like some profligate Borgia every time he touches it, the undead scream of the milk steamer brings Bucky out of the bedroom like a vampire to a blushing virgin.

Today he’s already got a stack of peanut butter toast on a plate and a mochaccino steaming gently beside it when Bucky comes into the kitchen, yawning and stretching. He’s wearing a pair of Steve’s red flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt that says CAPTAIN GAYMERICA and has a stylized cartoon of Steve in a rainbow Cap suit. He says, like every other time Bucky wears it, “That’s bisexual erasure.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky yawns again and rakes his fingers through his hair. “You’re preaching to the choir, buddy.”

They sit down at the table and eat in companionable silence, Steve with his copy of the _New York Times_ that shows up every morning on the doorstep and Bucky with _A Scanner Darkly_. Hydra didn’t make reading for fun a priority for the Asset, and Bucky has spent the last year trying to get caught up on seven decades’ worth of science fiction.

Steve drains the dregs from his second cup of treacly coffee and says, “Tony’s already messaged me, we have a team meeting at the Tower this morning to go over the intel that Nat picked up during last week’s mission.”

Bucky makes a face and blows a raspberry. “I thought we already went over that stuff. I don’t feel like going out today anyway,” he whines. “I wanna stay inside and finish my book. Can’t you tell them I’m having a bad day or something?”

Steve hits him with the Captain America is Appalled face. “If you think for even one second that I am going to lie to our friends because you feel like being lazy…”

“Okay, okay, calm your tits,” Bucky interrupts, waving his hand dismissively. “You’re a terrible liar, anyway. I’ll go on one condition: that we call a car to pick us up instead of taking the bike. That way I can keep reading in traffic.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you to read on the back of the bike,” Steve says. “But okay, that’s fine with me. Tony said 10:30.” He stands up and puts his mug and plate in the sink. “I’m gonna go shower, wanna join me?” He waggles his eyebrows and tries to smolder.

Bucky shoves his nose between the pages of his book and says, “No thanks, I’m busy,” and as Steve walks down the hallway toward the bathroom, he shouts, “And how many times do I have to tell you that your face is not built for looking sexy on purpose? If you try to do it, it just comes out goofy!” Steve gives him the finger and slams the bathroom door.

Fifteen minutes later, Steve is in the bedroom, making the bed, clean and dressed and ready to put his shoes on and leave. God knows how long it’ll take them to get to Manhattan in a car at this time of day, so he’d rather leave early than be late. “Bucky?” he calls. “Shower’s free, it’s your turn.” There’s no answer. “C’mon, Buck, you need to get a move on.” Still nothing. _That little shit is ignoring me_, he thinks. _Or…_ Or if Bucky is really that engrossed in his book, maybe this is Steve’s chance to sneak up on him and scare him for once in his goddamn life. Like, really scare the shit out of him like he’s always doing to Steve. He giggles.

He tiptoes down the hallway in his stocking feet and peeks around the corner into the living room. Bucky isn’t at the table. Or sitting on the couch. _Maybe he’s lying down_, Steve thinks. _Even better, then I can leap over the back of the couch and get the drop on him_. He imagines himself as a leopard dropping down on Bucky from a tree and stifles another giggle. He crouches down and creeps slowly and silently on all fours toward the back of the couch. Carefully, very carefully, he peeks around the side to see how Bucky’s positioned. 

He is, indeed, lying down on the couch, but he looks like he’s been shot with a tranquilizer gun. He’s facedown, his flesh arm twisted underneath him at a weird, painful-looking angle, his metal arm thrown up over the arm of the couch, holding the book open. A few of its pages are crumpled in the grip of his metal fingers. His legs are stretched out, but only one is on the couch– his right leg is hanging over the side and his knee is resting on the floor. His face is planted flat in a crack between the cushions and his hair is in disarray.

Steve shoots to his feet and feels adrenaline flood his system. His first thought is _sniper!_ but there’s no blood, no visible injuries, and no broken glass or other signs of violence. He slides his hand around Bucky’s neck, under his hair, and feels his pulse, slow and steady. At this moment, Bucky starts to snore softly into the crack.

Steve moves around to the front of the couch and sits down on the coffee table. He puts two hands under Bucky’s hips and scoots him toward the back of the couch, then lifts his right leg off the floor and tucks it next to his left. He puts his hand under Bucky’s chest and lifts him up just enough to arrange his flesh arm into a more comfortable position. He tries to take the book out of Bucky’s metal hand, but the grip is so tight that he’s afraid the pages will tear, so he leaves it there. Last, he gently turns Bucky’s head to the side, slips a small throw pillow underneath, and brushes his hair out of his face. Bucky stops snoring and mumbles, “Just pour the coffee in my pants, c’mon.” 

Steve laughs softly. “I guess you really were having a bad day,” he murmurs. “Or something. I’ll make your excuses.” He leans over and kisses Bucky’s temple, then slips his shoes on silently and leaves, locking the door behind him.

* * *

The second time it happens, the sun has barely crested the horizon and they’ve already run half a dozen laps around Prospect Park.

The night before, Steve is in the bed, propped up on a pillow against the headboard with his sketchbook in hand while Bucky brushes his teeth. He comes out of the bathroom smelling of toothpaste and soap, strips off his t-shirt and sweatpants, and slides under the sheets in just his black boxer briefs. “Fuuuuuuck,” he groans into the pillow. “God, I am not a naturally vertical person. The Winter Soldier is the vertical one. James Buchanan Barnes was born to be horizontal.”

Steve moves his hand under the covers to stroke Bucky’s back, hard, from the back of his neck down his spine. He makes a noise like a purr deep in his chest, and then turns his head so that he can crack an eye open and look at Steve’s face, carefully neutral in the dim light of his reading lamp. “I know you want to say it.”

“Nope, not me, I haven’t had a dirty thought since 1939.”

“That’s the goddamnedest lie I’ve ever heard in my life. Jesus, Pinocchio, is your nose…” Bucky opens his eyes wide in mock shock. “It is! It’s growing!”

In spite of himself, Steve reaches up with his other hand and touches his beaky, twice-broken nose. “Shaddup,” he laughs and, on the next stroke, pushes Bucky down so hard into the mattress that he squeaks.

“Why don’t you make me,” he growls, eyes closing again, and Steve briefly considers it before saying, “We’ve already been horizontal twice today, let’s just go to sleep so that we can get up tomorrow and do it all over again.”

“Do you all over again, you mean.”

Steve snorts. “We’ll see.” He puts down his sketchbook and picks up his phone from the bedside table, thumbing open the alarm. “Alright, tomorrow morning, you, me, running shoes at 6 o’clock.”

Bucky’s eyes snap open and he pushes himself up on his elbows. “No. No! Why?”

“Because I covered for you the other day when you decided to take a little nap at nine o’clock in the morning. I had to go all the way to Manhattan for that boring-ass meeting all by myself. You owe me one.”

“Aww, fuck.”

“C’mon, Buck, it’s just little light jogging.”

“Right, and when Tony takes his racing cars out to the Bonneville Salt Flats, it’s just a nice little Sunday drive.”

“You owe me.” Steve pauses. “And don’t forget, I can always make it up to you in the shower, afterwards.”

“Shit. Okay, fine.”

Steve kisses him on the top of his head and turns out the light.

Now, they’ve done six laps around the park and Bucky is done. “Please, Steve, just leave me here to die in peace.” He flops down on the bench and spreads his arms out over the back. “I don’t need any more exercise. We don’t need any exercise at all for, you know, health reasons, thanks to the blessed serum. You only do this ‘cause you’re a fucking masochist.” He kicks at Steve half-heartedly with his foot.

Steve, jogging in place, sticks his tongue out, and Bucky gives him a slow up-and-down and says, “How could someone with negative percent body fat jiggle so much? It’s delicious. Like a flan.” He leans forward and raises his hand to smack Steve’s ass, but Steve sprints away, laughing. “Okay, you lazy asshole, I’ll pick up you on my way back around,” he shouts, already in the distance.

Steve takes longer than he expects to, having run into a Captain America fan who practically trips him up to get a selfie, and then haring off on a tangent to help a teenager look for his lost dog (“You should always have your dog on a leash, son,” he says in his Captain America is Disappointed voice). As he turns the corner that leads back to the park entrance, he sees someone sitting on Bucky’s bench, but it’s not Bucky. At least, he thinks it’s not. This person is bigger than Bucky. Fluffier? And their clothes are moving very strangely? As he gets closer, he realizes that this person is covered in pigeons, and also that this person _is_ Bucky.

He sprints the last twenty feet flapping his arms and shouting “Shoo! Shoo!” As the pigeons take off en masse, the noise startles Bucky awake and he thrashes around, mumbling urgently, “Walkies, walkies!” Steve skids to a stop beside him and kneels down, looking him over quickly to make sure that Bucky hadn’t been bitten. Pecked? 

Bucky looks bewildered, and there are loose feathers all over him. “Stevie, I had the weirdest dream, we had a tiger and it lived in the house with us like a cat, but it got restless if we didn’t take it out all the time for walks, and I forgot to take it out this morning and then you came out of the bedroom naked as a jay bird and it was about to pounce on you…” He trails off, and his eyebrows come down so far that they meet over the bridge of his nose. “Are we still in the park?”

“Yeah, Buck, I left you here because you whined about doing another lap, and when I came back you were fast asleep and covered in pigeons.”

Bucky’s eyes bug out of his head and he shoots to his feet, doing a wiggly pat-down brush-off dance so comical that Steve almost gets his phone out to record it, but prudently decides he’d rather not be murdered today. Feathers fall off of him like snowflakes, and Steve reaches up to pick a few out of Bucky’s hair. “Lucky break, it looks like none of them shit on you,” he says. “There must have been a couple dozen, at least, perched all over you like you were George Washington on a horse.”

Bucky does something that looks like a combination of a shiver and a flail and gags like a cat trying to bring up a hairball. “What the hell, Steve? I never fall asleep in public places, you know me! The Winter fucking Soldier! Can’t hardly sleep in his own fucking bed!”

Steve furrows his brow and says, “Yeah, it’s kinda weird. And even weirder that you didn’t wake up when the pigeons started landing on you.” He wrinkles his nose. “Some of them were even on your face.”

Bucky does another involuntary shiver/flail combination. “Ugh. Ugh! Disgusting. I am so disgusted right now. I need a shower. I need a shower and some bleach. Maybe a flamethrower.”

Steve takes him by the elbow, gingerly, between his thumb and forefinger, and leads him out of the park. “I know I said I’d make it up to you in the shower after our run, but I think I’m gonna let you take this one all by yourself.”

“What the hell,” Bucky grumbles. “What about ‘in sickness and in health’ and all that?”

“Well, first of all, we aren’t married, so I never promised anything that could conceivably cover pigeon-related incidents. Second of all, how about I make pancakes while you’re decontaminating, and then I’ll make it up to you when it’s _my_ turn to get in the shower.”

“Fine. Fine!” Bucky says. “But you’d better hustle, champ, because if I catch you before we get home, I’m gonna rub my disgusting pigeon body all over you.” He lunges for Steve, who takes off sprinting down the sidewalk, and they run laughing all the way home.

* * *

The third time it happens, they’ve already been making out on the couch for 20 minutes. It’s a Saturday, a particularly lazy Saturday, in Steve’s estimation (Bucky thinks there was too much walking to be considered truly lazy, but they agree to disagree). They wake up late and meet Nat and Sam at a pretentious café for brunch. Steve and Bucky would have preferred to meet at their favorite greasy diner, but Sam and Nat both maintain that they have standards, and low standards at that, which preclude them from setting foot in the kind of greasy diners that Steve and Bucky like.

Afterwards, they go to the farmer’s market to buy fruit and veg, the butcher to buy two chickens for dinner, and then home to make lunch. After lunch they go to the library to return some books and to check out new ones. Bucky gets his usual tall stack of science fiction, and Steve picks a few graphic novels because he’s secretly thinking about producing a graphic novel of his own. He loves drawing and painting, and he used to draw comics for Bucky when they were kids, but he had never thought about actually taking comics seriously as a medium until he stumbled across the graphic novel section in the library. They combine the best things of both books and comics, and as he sets his stack on the check-out counter for the librarian to scan, he feels a surge of gratefulness for the future, where these types of things exist.

In the afternoon, they lie around the living room, Bucky reading _A Canticle for Leibowitz_ and Steve with his sketchbook open, trying some preliminary graphic novel ideas on for size. Then Bucky roasts the chickens with potatoes and carrots, and they eat dinner. After the dishes are washed and the floor swept, they lie down on the couch and put on a movie, but, like usual, they start making out before the first act is over and they never get to the end.

They have lots of different kinds of sex, Steve and Bucky, and some of it is hot and fast, like when they come home together from a mission and one of them has the other pushed up against the wall before the door is even closed. In these situations, they usually don’t even get their uniforms all the way off. Actually, Steve thinks, the uniforms are part of the fun; he knows the way his insides clench when he sees Bucky in his all-black tactical leather bondage gear flipping a knife in his hand. He doesn’t know what Bucky thinks about the Cap uniform– he’s never asked– but even he himself can tell that the jacket highlights his atrocious shoulder-to-waist ratio, and the obscenely tight pants cling in all the right places.

Sometimes the sex is perfunctory and practical, the identification of a need to be met in a short time frame. That doesn’t make it any colder or less satisfactory, just different. A lot of their morning sex falls into this category. They have, for example, forty-five minutes to get up, get showered and dressed, eat breakfast, and be out the door in order to make it to the Tower on time for a meeting. A hand here, a mouth there, no teasing or playing, and the job is done.

But the sex Steve likes best of all is the kind that’s precluded by making out. It usually goes like this: they put on a movie, or try to take a catnap, or decide to read together while spooning (difficult, but can be done). Anyway, it involves them lying down on the couch or in the bed. They both concentrate on what they’re supposed to be doing for a while, until whoever is the big spoon either starts running his hands through the little spoon’s hair, or stroking his arm, or running his fingernails up and down the little spoon’s side, under his shirt. At this junction the little spoon either drops straight off to sleep or, if a little more alert, turns to face the big spoon and begins to touch, too. A hand on his face, fingers running lightly through his hair and across his scalp, a hand slipped up under a t-shirt to stroke his stomach. And then they start kissing, the movie ignored in the background or the books lying facedown on the floor, sacrificing their poor spines for love. 

Steve loves making out; it feels so sybaritic, so indolent. He revels in the feeling of the absence of hurry, of making something that feels good last longer just because you can. Bucky once told him he had a laziness kink, and while he doesn’t think it goes that far, he does recognize that there’s something about indolence that turns him on. It’s a slow heat, different from the white-hot punch of lust, that builds up in his insides the longer they lie there, exploring with their hands, kissing softly and deeply, but not hungrily or desperately. 

The ember in his belly glows and glows, and Steve thinks he could stay like this all night, Bucky stroking his back, his hand in Bucky’s hair, their mouths pressing together. His body has other plans, though, and all of a sudden, the ember bursts into flame and Steve crushes Bucky’s mouth with his, pressing their hips together and closing his fingers into a fist in Bucky’s hair.

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky gasps. “I thought I was going to die of old age before you ever decided to get to second base.”

Steve pulls Bucky’s hair a little harder, and Bucky obligingly tilts his head back, baring the tenderest parts of his neck to Steve’s teeth. “Shaddup,” he says, between nips. “You know you love it.”

Bucky grabs the hand that Steve has tangled in his hair and pulls it down to his mouth, planting a fiery kiss in the middle of Steve’s palm. “I do, I love it, I love you, but now I need you to go get the lube while I. Get. Naked.” He snaps his hips on the last two words, and Steve bites his bottom lip and makes an obscene noise. He rolls over on his back and then sits up. His body is unwilling to leave, but he gets to his feet and walks a little unsteadily toward the bedroom as he hears the pop-pop-pop-pop of Bucky undoing his button fly.

In the bedroom he doesn’t bother to turn on the light, but rummages around in his bedside table in the dark. But he can’t find the lube in its usual drawer, so he has to turn on the lamp and hunt around on his hands and knees before he sees it, fallen between the bedside table and the wall. He’s almost out the door before he thinks to go back into the master bathroom and grab a towel– that’ll save them the hassle of cleaning the couch, _again_. He also strips out of his sweatpants and his t-shirt, leaving on only his boxer briefs. He’s painfully hard, and he almost squeezes himself for a little relief, but doesn’t. He likes it so much better if it’s Bucky’s hand that touches him first.

He practically speed walks down the hall and into the living room and is greeted by the sight of Bucky sprawled out on his back on the couch, his legs akimbo and his jeans and his underwear bunched down around his ankles. He’s fast asleep, his cock soft and heavy between his legs. Steve stands at the head of the couch and watches the slow rise and fall of his stomach under his rucked-up t-shirt and listens to the soft whisper of his snore. “Bucky?” he says, quietly. Bucky doesn’t move. Steve looks down at the bulge in his own underwear and heaves a sigh. He takes the lube and the towel back into the bedroom and turns down the bedcovers on Bucky’s side of the bed. He goes out into the living room and slides one of his arms under Bucky’s shoulders and the other behind his knees, then picks him up, as gently as possible, and carries him into the bedroom. After he sets him down on the bed, he pulls his jeans off, one foot at a time, and gently tugs his underwear up his legs and over his hips. Bucky rolls his head from one side to the other and murmurs, “Stevie, baby, blow out the candle and come to bed.”

Steve stands at the side of the bed and looks at Bucky as he’s absentmindedly folding the jeans. He almost never gets to see him like this, wholly surrendered to sleep, yet not wrapped up in his duvet burrito. He looks impossibly soft and long-limbed, like a gazelle. His legs, especially, look like they’re about five miles long, and he has such beautifully well-shaped calves and slim ankles that Steve can’t help himself– he reaches out and runs his fingers from where Bucky’s leg meets his hip all the way down to his toes. His flesh arm is resting on his chest, his fingers lax and curled, and his metal arm is lying palm-up on Steve’s side of the bed. The muscles of his torso are so relaxed in sleep that their hard, defined edges have softened into dips and curves under his skin, and in the stretched-out neck of his t-shirt, his collarbones stand out in sharp relief, framing the divot where his throat meets his sternum. His lips are parted, and his long, dark lashes flutter softly as he dreams. He’s so beautiful, and he looks so exactly like the Bucky that Steve remembers vividly from his adolescence that tears fill his eyes and he has to choke down a sob.

He looks at the clock on the wall over the dresser. It’s only nine o’clock. He has no idea why Bucky fell asleep so fast and so early, but he must have been tired, for whatever reason. Steve isn’t ready to go to bed, though, so he goes out to the living room and grabs his sketchbook and a pencil and picks up one of the bar stools from the kitchen island. He positions the stool at the side of the bed, next to Bucky’s hip, and sits down and begins to draw.


	2. Chapter 2

A week later there’s an attack by gigantic, mutated sea serpents that come out of the Upper Bay in Red Hook. By the time the Avengers arrive on the scene, the water around the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal is boiling and thrashing like a carp pond right below a coin-operated fish food dispenser. Dozens of the larger sea serpents are already half out of the water, writhing about on the dock, and there are hundreds of smaller ones tying themselves in knots under the water.

“Ugh, gross gross gross,” groans Sam over the comms. “Snakes, eww, god, I fucking hate snakes.”

The largest sea serpent opens its mouth and regurgitates steaming black bile, which immediately begins to eat through the wooden dock. Sam makes a retching noise over the comms.

“Jesus, that’s disgusting,” says Tony. “Jarvis, tell Hill we’re gonna need a clean-up crew with those nuclear hazmat jumpsuits.”

“Yes, sir.”

They figure out quickly that the sea serpents are easy to take down with a headshot: a bullet, an arrow, a repulsor blast, or a blow from Steve’s shield. The only problem is that when they die, they vomit up their bodyweight in the corrosive black goo, so in the interests of environmental safety, they have to wait for the serpents to crawl up on dry land before they send them to meet their maker. As far as missions go, and especially attacks on New York, it’s pretty easy; it kind of reminds Bucky of the shooting games at Luna Park where he used to go and win stuffed bears for his best girl (who was actually just Steve).

Bucky and Clint are stationed on top of a red brick warehouse building on Wolcott Street, taking turns shooting the serpents that make land closest to them. Bucky shoots one through its tiny, beady eye (“Showoff,” mutters Clint), and Clint takes the next one down with a well-placed arrow. “Your turn, Barnes,” he says. Bucky doesn’t answer, and Clint thinks he’s probably just waiting for the serpent to get close enough so that he can shoot it through a nostril or something, but nothing happens. The serpent wriggles closer. “C’mon, man, I’m growing grey hairs here, just take the shot so I can have a go,” Clint complains.

Still, nothing happens, so he turns around to see Bucky lying curled up on his side on the tarpaper roof, hair covering his face and his sniper rifle clutched loosely to his chest like a teddy bear. And _oh my sainted aunt_, Clint thinks, _is he?? He can’t be. Yes, he is_. He’s sucking on his metal thumb. Clint drops down and puts his hand on Bucky’s neck to check his pulse. It’s slow and steady, and at that moment his thumb falls out of his mouth and he starts to snore.

“What the fuck,” Clint says to himself, and then: “The Soldier is down! Repeat, the Soldier is down!” Chaos erupts over the comms.

“_What?_” shouts Tony. “_How?_ Is he hit? None of these Here Be Dragons motherfuckers have any projectiles, and they’re nowhere near you guys! Is there a third party we don’t know about?”

“I don’t know!” shouts Clint. “One minute he was popping a cap in a snake’s ass, and the next he was out cold! It doesn’t look like he’s hit, his pulse is steady, I have no idea what happened.”

At the same time, there’s a wet thud and a sickening crunch, and then Steve shouts, “Stay there, I’m on my way!”

“Okay,” says Tony, “we’ll take care of the rest of these vermin, get him on the quinjet and get him stabilized. Widow, cover the Soldier and Hawkeye on the left flank, let me know if you need a boost to a high vantage point.” There’s a pause, and Clint hears him mumble over the comms, “Snakes don’t have asses, Christ, basic reptile anatomy. I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Ten seconds later, having vaulted the six-foot chain-link fence and kicked open the warehouse door, Steve bursts onto the roof and skids to a stop on his knees beside Bucky. He pulls his gloves off with his teeth and pats Bucky all over, looking for wounds or any other sign of trauma. He finds nothing, and resorts to cradling Bucky’s face between his hands. Bucky is still out like a light, but he’s snoring gently with a little smile on his face and looking for all the world like he belongs in a crib with a blankie and a nightlight. Steve glances at Clint, a little bewildered and a little desperate. “Hey Bucky,” he says, stoking the side of Bucky’s face with his fingers. “Hey Buck, wake up, I need you to wake up.” Bucky mumble-growls, “No, I said the _other_ puppets,” and rolls over onto his back. Steve grabs hold of his shoulders and shakes him, none too gently. Bucky scrunches his face up and then erupts into a jaw-cracking yawn, stretching the arm not cradling the rifle and almost decking Steve in the nose. He opens his eyes, squinting against the glare of the sun, and blinks a few times. “Morning, Stevie,” he says, and smiles dopily. His brain seems to catch up half a second later because he sits bolt upright and shouts, “What happened? Am I hit? Are we still in Red Hook?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, “we’re still in Red Hook and the rest of the team are mopping up the last few sea serpents. I don’t know what happened. It doesn’t look like you got hit, you have no injuries, you just… fell asleep.”

“That’s right,” says Clint. “Cradling your gun like a teddy bear and sucking your thumb.” Bucky gives him the patented Winter Soldier murder glare and Clint cackles.

“Christ,” says Tony over the comms. “Steve, what did you guys do last night that made Barnes so tired he _fell asleep_ in the middle of a mission?” Steve rolls his eyes and scoffs, but can’t hide his furious blush.

“I’m not tired!” Bucky insists.

“And anyway,” Steve says, “last night we watched _Ghostbusters_ and went to sleep early.”

“This morning, on the other hand…” Bucky says. Steve smacks his human shoulder, but he continues, “and after breakfast, and in the shower, and while we were suiting up…”

“Alright, shut up, keep it in your pants,” Tony grumbles. Nat is laughing in the background and Sam is muttering, “Be an Avenger, they said. Save the world, they said. No one said anything about the snakes.”

Tony cracks on the comms again. “While Barnes was getting his beauty rest, I think we got the last of the motherfucking snakes in this motherfucking bay. Hill’s crew should be here in just a minute, let’s wrap this up and go home.”

* * *

Later, they’re all showered and presentable, sitting in the conference room for the mission debrief. They cover what little intel they have on the sea serpents; it seems that they’re the work of some small-change mad-scientist type who dumped them in the sewer when they got too big to handle. Clint hums the _Ninja Turtles_ theme song until Nat kicks him under the table.

“Okay,” says Tony, “Hill’s got her people on cleanup and they’ve already arrested the science-kit snake handler, so there’s nothing we need to follow up on there. Except,” he says, pointing an accusing finger at Bucky, “except why did Sleeping Beauty over there, the Winter fucking Soldier if I have to remind you all again and I don’t think I do, fall asleep in the middle of a fight?” Bucky and Steve open their mouths at the same time, but Tony runs right over them. “I mean, I, for one, remember how paranoid Skywalker here was when he first came in, hardly slept for weeks! And he didn’t even have the good graces to stay in the rent-free luxury apartment that I so kindly provided for him and the star-spangled Bomb Pop, just stalked around my Tower at all hours of the day and night like the boogeyman, scaring the shit out of my poor employees! How is it that now, only a year later, he’s falling asleep on duty?”

Bucky is giving Tony the murder glare, and Sam, on his left, is patting ineffectually at his arm. Clint raises his hand, and Tony points at him and says, “Yes, you, fashion disaster,” and Clint says, “Luke Skywalker or Anakin Skywalker?” Nat kicks him under the table again and Tony rolls his eyes.

Both Bucky and Tony take a deep breath as a prelude to shouting, but Steve holds a placating hand up and says, “If I can have the floor?” He doesn’t wait for permission before he barrels on. “I think we have a problem, actually.”

“We sure as shit have a-" Tony begins to say, but Steve cuts him off.

“I mean, this isn’t the first time that Bucky’s fallen asleep at a weird time or a weird place. It wasn’t until today that I put the pieces together, but there have been other incidents in the last few weeks.” He looks at Bucky, his brow furrowed and his face soft and concerned. “Actually, I think it would be a good idea to get him checked out by Bruce or Dr. Cho.”

Bucky half rises out of his chair. “There ain’t nothing wrong with me!”

At the same time, Clint starts dun-dun-dunning the Imperial March and swings his feet up on the table so that Nat can’t kick him again.

She settles for shooting him a look, then turns to Steve and says, “What do you mean, incidents? Has this been happening a lot?”

“Yeah, Rogers,” Bucky says sarcastically. “When else have I fallen asleep? Except for, you know, every night? Like normal people do?”

Steve narrows his eyes and says softly, “The day we had to come to the Tower, and you wanted to stay home and read your book instead, I think that was the first time.”

To the rest of the company, he says, “Remember when we were going over the intel from the mission in Nebraska, and Bucky didn’t come, and I said he was having a bad day? Well, what happened was he was perfectly fine and awake when I went to take a shower, and fifteen minutes later I come out of the bedroom to find him lying face down half-on, half-off the couch, looking like he’d been shot with an elephant tranquilizer.”

Tony folds his arms and looks skeptical; everyone else just looks confused.

“I thought maybe he hadn’t slept well, and he was having a bad day, so I just threw a blanket over him and left. When I got back, he was back at the kitchen table with his book like nothing had happened.”

Everyone looks at Bucky, who shrugs. “Can’t a fella take a nap? Jesus.”

“It was nine o’clock in the morning,” Steve says primly. “And the second time,” he begins, then pauses. He turns to Bucky and mouths, _THE PIGEONS_. Bucky starts in his chair and points a finger at Steve’s nose. “Don’t you dare, Steve, I’m warning you.”

“Buck, I gotta tell them, I think it’s important,” Steve reasons, and without waiting for a reply, he turns to the rest of the group and says, “A few days later, we were running in the park in the morning, and Bucky decided he’d had enough, so I left him sitting on a bench at the entrance while I did one more loop. I couldn’t have been gone more than twenty minutes, but when I came back, he was dead asleep and covered in pigeons.”

Tony and Clint burst out laughing, and Bucky buries his face in his hands. Sam pats him on the back.

“I mean,” continues Steve, “that’s really weird, because the Winter Soldier would never fall asleep on a bench in the middle of Prospect Park, and Bucky Barnes wouldn’t touch a pigeon with a ten-foot pole. And when the pigeons scattered and woke him up, he was really confused and started telling me all about the dream he’d been having.”

“Is that all?” Tony asks. He’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, no,” Steve says, slowly, looking at Bucky again. Bucky looks wary but confused, his frown deepening as Steve starts to turn a delicate shell pink.

“C’mon man, spit it out,” Clint says, rubbing his hands evilly.

“Okay, okay, so a week ago, that was the last time it happened apart from today, I think, he fell asleep in the middle of…” Steve trails off, looking like all the blood in his body has migrated to his face. He flaps his hands vaguely. “In the middle of… you know.”

Bucky is staring at him, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“Wait, you mean _in the middle_ in the middle?” asks Clint.

“No, no,” says Steve. “But almost. I’d just left the room for a second to get… something. And when I came back, he was out cold.” He clears his throat. “I actually had to carry him to bed, and he didn’t wake up until the next morning, even though it was only nine p.m. And I don’t think he remembers it.”

Bucky shakes his head slowly back and forth, his mouth still open.

Tony laughs gleefully. “Well now, that does sound like a problem! Falling asleep _in flagrante delicto_ with the second sexiest man in America?” He points both thumbs at himself and whispers loudly to the room at large, “I’m the first.”

Steve puts on his best long-suffering face. “Tony, I was out of the room, I didn’t actually see him fall asleep. Can we just call Bruce and get on down to the lab? I’m kinda worried, I think you should at least give him a brain scan or whatever it is that you do when-“

Bucky interrupts, “Hey, I’m sitting right here, don’t I get a say?”

“No,” everyone else in the room choruses, and they all stand up and head for the elevators.

* * *

Bruce is already in the lab when Steve, Bucky, and Tony get downstairs. “I called Dr. Cho, but she’s in Rochester for a conference,” he says apologetically. “We’ve got the equipment to do a simple brain scan, though, and I’m going to send her the results to look over. If she thinks that something more complicated needs to be done, she’ll let me know.”

“I’m fine, Christ almighty,” Bucky snaps. “Let’s just get this over with so she can tell you nothing’s wrong, and then I can go do something else away from you hysterical assholes.”

Steve knows that he’s nervous, but he can’t tell if it’s just Bucky’s baseline nervousness related to being in a medical-type situation or if he’s worried that something might actually be wrong with him, apart from all of the usual things that are wrong with him. He reaches out his hand and takes Bucky’s, lacing their fingers together and giving them a squeeze.

“C’mon, Buck, you’ve done this before, it’s five minutes in the machine and then we can go home. Bruce will call us and let us know if we need to come back.”

Bruce nods and starts prepping the machine. Bucky is starting to breathe a little faster, and Steve can see that he’s already got his thousand-yard stare, so he untangles their fingers and moves around to hold Bucky in a hug from behind, one arm around Bucky’s waist, the other across his chest, pressed up against him from shoulders to hips.

Tony is on the other side of the room, rummaging around in a crate full of tools and scrap metal. Steve thinks he can see a hubcap and… an old tin wind-up monkey, the kind with the cymbals? He’s about to ask about it to fill the silence when Tony claps his hands together and says, “God, this is like my birthday come early. I can’t _wait_ to get all up in Barnes’s head and look at his wiring. No matter how many times I see it, it never gets old.”

Bucky clenches his fists and Steve pulls him a little closer to his chest. Tony, oblivious to Bucky’s distress, plows ahead. “It really sucks what they did to you, Mr. Roboto, but goddamn, sometimes I’d just like to go down to the seventh circle of hell or wherever and shake the hand of the guy who did that brain-arm interface, because it is a mind-blowing piece of work that no one has been able to replicate since. To my knowledge. Not that anyone has tried.” He shoots Steve a somewhat chagrined look. “Geneva convention and all that.”

“Shut up, Tony,” says Bruce, gently. “I’m ready over here.”

Steve slowly walks Bucky over to the machine, which involves using his strength to push Bucky forward so that his legs are forced to move in order to keep him from falling flat on his face. They’ve tried all sorts of ways to get Bucky into the tube, everything from sedation to coaxing him with treats like a cat, but the best method is this: Steve wrapped around him, impelling him from behind and whispering in his ear, “You’re doing great, Buck, so great, you’re being so brave, when we’re done we’re gonna go get doughnuts, I’ll even let you pick out the ones we’re gonna take home, I won’t even try to sneak a jelly doughnut in there, I promise, you’re doing so great, almost there, just another foot…”

The next step, when they actually get to the machine and Bucky is recumbent with his head under the big magnet and his eyes closed, is that Steve lies down with his head on Bucky’s chest and the rest of his body covering Bucky’s body, pressing him into the table, Steve’s hands under his shirt stroking hard down his sides like he’s petting a cat. Bucky, understandably, freaks out when he’s restrained or confined in any way, but after much experimentation, they’ve determined that his hindbrain doesn’t really see Steve as a restraint, but something more like an extension of his own body.

This time, however, when they’re just a step away from the table, Tony suddenly stops mumbling to himself and snaps his fingers. “Hey, wait a minute! Maybe it’s not a brain thing at all!”

Steve, hardly breaking his _you’re doing so great_ patter, says, “Don’t interrupt, Tony, we’re almost there.”

Tony strides over and flips the switch on the machine, powering it down. “No, really, I just had a brainwave- ha ha, get it, brainwave– I bet you dollars to doughnuts, and if I’m right you have to bring me a box of those doughnuts you were talking about, make half of them cronuts, Pepper likes those– that this is actually an arm thing.”

Bruce, Steve, and Bucky, all three, turn to look at him. “I mean,” says Tony, walking around in a tight circle and waving his hands in the air, “think about it. It doesn’t sound like classic narcolepsy, there isn’t an overwhelming feeling of sleepiness before the incidents, he just drops off like a brick off a cliff, right?” Steve nods.

“And there don’t seem to be any common triggers, it’s not like he’s feeling some extreme emotion at the time. I mean, that might explain the time you guys were doing the horizontal mambo,”– Steve grits his teeth– “and you might think it’d explain the fight, but we’ve all worked with the Winter Soldier long enough to know that extreme emotion is not part of his _modus operandi_. And it doesn’t explain the first time or the pigeons.”

“Maybe I was just really, really annoyed at Steve,” Bucky rasps. He sounds like he’s mostly himself again, so Steve loosens his grip on his torso. “I get _extremely_ annoyed at him on a daily basis.” Steve uses the convenient position of his hands to stab Bucky in the sides with both of his thumbs.

“Yeah, okay, maybe,” says Tony, “but don’t you think before you get all catatonic in the tin can, I should poke around in your arm a little? Just to see if anything is out of sorts, rule out a crossed wire somewhere? That happened to DUM-E once, he had a loose wire that caused a short and made him whistle ‘Minnie the Moocher’ any time his arm rotated more than 180° counterclockwise.” He looks at Steve and Bucky with a hopeful smile on his face. “Pretty please? With a cherry? Two cherries?”

Bucky looks at Steve and Steve shrugs. “Okay,” Bucky says, “But just a quick look-see, no adding lasers and shit while you’re in there.”

Tony practically jumps up and down in his excitement. “Okay! Okay. Cool, cool, cool. Great, now if you’ll just step over here and sit down on that stool we’ll get down to business.”

Bruce says, “I’m gonna go find lunch if you’re done with me,” and Tony waves at him absently as he walks out of the room.

He ushers Bucky over to a table in total disarray and rummages around in the mess muttering “where’s the Barnes bag” until he comes up with a small black velvet pouch and starts pulling out tiny screwdrivers and other unidentifiable tools. “Okay, Snow White, give me your arm, no, the other one, asshole. You, Prince Charming, come stand around behind him and get ready to catch if he loses consciousness. And if he does, then kiss.” He mashes the tips of his index fingers together and giggles.

Steve rolls his eyes but goes to stand behind Bucky with his arms around his chest. Tony moves a lamp over to shine directly on Bucky’s arm and starts poking around under the plates on his shoulder, popping them off of the underlying structure one by one.

“Steve, I need constant chatter in order to focus,” he says, “but I can’t provide it myself because I’m trying to concentrate here, so could you, I dunno, tell a story about your good ol’ days as the fiercest lil’ chihuahua in Brooklyn? Give me something for my higher brain functions to listen to.”

Bucky actually laughs out loud, so Steve decides graciously not to take offence. He hums while he ponders, and after half a minute he says, “Buck, do you remember that one time it was my ma’s birthday, and I didn’t have any money to get her a present?”

“Is this the story about the flowers?”

Steve grins. “Yep. Okay, Tony, this is what happened. I think it was maybe 1930? So I woulda been twelve and Bucky was thirteen. Anyway, it was after the crash, because even though we were poor as dirt before Black Tuesday, we usually had two pennies to rub together, and afterwards we had nothing because we were even poorer.”

“Jesus,” Tony interrupts. “Is this gonna be a sad story? If I cry inside the Tin Man’s arm it’s gonna get rusty and then I’ll have to break out the quaint little oil can.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “No, this is a funny story, which you’d learn if you didn’t interrupt.”

Tony’s popped off enough plates that he can start poking around in the inner workings of Bucky’s arm, and he doesn’t answer.

“Anyway,” Steve continues, “it was my ma’s birthday, and I was just desperate to get her something ‘cause she’d had a really hard week at the hospital and had been working double shifts so that we had enough money to make rent and not get kicked out of our tenement.”

“Cap, seriously, I feel a little moisture in the corner of my eye, if it turns into a full-grown tear…”

“Tony, shaddup,” Bucky interrupts. “This is a good story.”

“Yeah, Tony,” Steve says, like Bucky's annoying little brother. “As I was saying, I wanted to get something for my ma, but I didn’t have any money and neither did Bucky, so we were walking down the street feeling bad about it when all of a sudden Bucky said, ‘Hey Stevie, what about Mrs. MacGillicuddy’s flowers?’ She was this little old lady that lived around the corner from Bucky’s building, and she had this beautiful flower bed in front of her house that was always full of… something blooming. I don’t know anything about flowers.”

“They were roses, dumbass,” Bucky puts in.

“Roses, okay. Anyway, he said, ‘She’ll never miss a couple, especially if we take them off the back of the bushes, and your ma will love them.’ So, then I said…” but here Tony cuts him off.

“I think I’ve got it, there’s a wire here that’s come loose and is close enough to another wire that if they get jostled around and make contact, it could cause a short circuit. I’m gonna test it, ready or not!”

He gives the arm a poke with the screwdriver and Bucky drops into the well of unconsciousness like a stone. He slumps back against Steve like a sack of potatoes, his head flopping back, and Steve has to brace his feet to hold Bucky’s weight up against his chest.

“I was right!” Tony crows. “You owe me a dozen doughnuts. Now hold him still while I get this soldered back in place.”

Steve shifts his arms a little, trying to get his bicep under Bucky’s head so that it won’t loll around on his neck so painfully. “Can’t I wake him up? He’s awful unwieldy.”

“Nah, let’s just keep him out of it until I’m done, then I won’t have to listen to his sass. In the meantime,” Tony glances at Steve and waggles his eyebrows meaningfully, “how about a little upgrade or two? No lasers, alright, but maybe a grenade launcher? I know you have his power of attorney.”

“No, Tony.”

“An EMP generator?”

“I said no!”

“A corkscrew? A bottle opener?”

“He’s not a fucking Swiss army knife, Tony, now get on with it!”

Tony grins and pokes the hot soldering iron into the cavity in Bucky’s shoulder. “Ooh, Cap, language,” he teases. Steve just glares.

Half a minute later, Tony puts the soldering iron away. “That should do the trick.” He pokes around in the arm for another minute, then starts picking up the plates and popping them back into place.

All of a sudden, Bucky shivers, nuzzles his face into Steve’s armpit and says, low and hot, “Oh yeah, Stevie, justlike that, oh fuck, baby, I love it when you do that, it feels so fuckin’…” while Steve looks wildly between Bucky and Tony. Tony's got a look on his face like Christmas has come early, so without waiting for the go-ahead, Steve starts shaking Bucky back and forth like a rag doll.

“Wake up, Buck, wake up!”

Bucky flails around, or as much as he can with Steve’s arms wrapped tight around his chest, and says, “Whassa matter? Where are we?” He looks at Tony, who is holding up the last plate and looking like the cat who got the cream.

“Yep, Buckaroo, still in the lab, and I fixed your problem. Shouldn’t give you any more trouble. And your attack dog wouldn’t let me put anything cool in your arm while you were out, so no worries about that. Just got to pop on the last plate here and then you can give Steve allllll the details of whatever it was you were dreaming about.”

“Whatever I was dreaming about?” Bucky swivels his head around and stares at Steve, who looks like he has the world’s worst sunburn. He narrows his eyes and thinks for a moment and then smiles, slow and wicked. “Oh. Ohhhhh. Yeah. I got ya, Stevie. Remember that time the shower got busted?”

Tony grins.

“Yeah, Buck, and we had to stay at Nat’s house?”

Tony’s grin widens.

“That’s right, Stevie, and then the brake line on the motorcycle broke on the way home?”

Tony’s grin falters.

“And we had to push it all the way back?” Steve says. He bites his lip.

Tony looks confused.

“Yeah, and then garage gave us the wrong part?” They’re both breathing noticeably heavier, and Steve is blushing again.

“So then we had to take the subway down to Brighton Beach to…”

Tony interrupts, waving his hands in distress, “Alright, alright, I don’t know if you’re jerking my chain or what but for the love of god shut up, I do not want to know where that story was going. Jesus. Get a room.” He throws the little velvet bag down on the table and stalks off to the other side of the lab. “Actually, you have a room here, so take it upstairs, you dirty old men.”

Bucky slides off the stool and laces his fingers through Steve’s. “Thanks, Tony,” he calls. And then, lower, jerking his thumb toward the ceiling, “You wanna…”

Steve bites his lip again, then says, “No, better wait ‘til we get home. I’ve got the bike, we can get back in no time.”

“Do we still have the thing?”

“Yeah, in the closet, under your old tac gear.”

“I can still hear you, you freaks!” Tony yells from behind a partition.

They both laugh. “Okay, okay, we’re going,” Bucky says.

Steve loops his arm over Bucky’s shoulder and kisses him on the temple. “Just don’t fall asleep on me this time.”

Bucky slips his metal hand in Steve’s back pocket as they walk out the door and squeezes his ass. “I don’t plan on it, baby.”


End file.
